Entice (Hearts of Stone #2) (20 page)

And I wonder if I'll ever get enough of him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

If I were desperate to rent a place, there's a dozen living situations I could've entertained. There are ads everywhere. I have friends that love me or at the very least tolerate me enough to let me live with them for a few months. The truth is, I am crazy in love with the loft. I don't know what it is, but I've never had a place give me butterflies the way it does. The thought of living anywhere else literally gives me a pang in my stomach. That loft is my home. I've felt it the very first moment I saw the notice on the bulletin board. I had no idea then the loft was connected to Owen and I didn't know when I dialed the number.
 

Anyway, it's done. I gave Owen the check already, first and last months rent. It put a huge dent in my savings, but that's okay. I'll have a paycheck coming in a couple of weeks. Soon I'll be back on track, financially. Soon my whole life will be back on track.

The next day, my eyes open to the brightness of Lex's guest room. It's New Year's Eve and I'm already nursing a dry mouth and minor headache.
 

"Seriously?" Lex asks me as I settle down to eat breakfast. "You're hung-over again? What are you going to do when you start work? You'll have to cut back on the drinking."

"I'm not hung-over," I lie. "It's just a headache. Anyway, did I tell you? I found a place to live."

My sister, who is aware of my upcoming interview with the university but not yet privy to the fact that I lost my apartment, sets her fork down, surprised. "I didn't know you started looking. Don't you have to give notice at your old place?"

"No, it all worked out," I say vaguely.

There's a lot I don't tell my sister. She worries too much about me and I decide to stow away tiny, inconsequential facts—all of which add up to an inconvenient truth—and mentally place them under the kitchen sink.

I use my headache as an excuse to keep quiet and Lex, not being much of a conversationalist anyway, doesn't seem to mind. There's an offbeat heaviness to our silence. A chunky anticipation for one or the other to mention the person whose name so obviously hangs, unspoken, overhead.

Leo.
 

Today is the day Lex's supposed to meet him. She's yet to give me any hint as to which way she's leaning but if my gut is right, things aren't looking good for the guy. I think Lex already made up her mind about wiping him from her life the moment he hurt her.
 

After hearing Leo out, I understand why he needs her to meet him in person. If he tells her that he bought a house, it won't have the same impact as if she saw it for herself and, frankly, it might scare Lex away for good.
 

I have to admire the guy's persistence. Any other sucker wouldn't bother with this shit. It's way too much effort for someone who is anything less than bat-shit crazy in love with my sister.

Lex leaves me behind at the condo pretty early, vague about what her plans are for the day. I wonder if maybe she plans to drive around aimlessly, as a form of distraction. A form of evasion. That's one thing we Stone women are good at. Evasion.

I go back to sleep, pulling the covers over my head, enjoying the warmth of the bed, and not waking up again until well into the afternoon. By then I feel better, renewed, able to spend the rest of the evening cleaning and organizing the things I crammed in my giant suitcase when I moved the rest of my stuff into storage.
 

I daydream about the loft. I'll be moving my things into it in about a week's time, once the new appliances have been installed. Most of all, I daydream about the man who promised to pick me up tonight, 6:30 p.m. sharp.
 

Though I try to remain busy, merely passing the time until my date with Owen, the day feels impossibly long. The minutes churn lazily until I find myself pouring a drink. Sundown still too far away and me too thirsty to wait for it.

A small voice in my head warns I've been drinking alone too often. It sounds suspiciously like my sister. I acknowledge the voice, and then tell it to kindly mind its own damn business. Still, I end up stowing the bottle of vodka under the sink. Just to avoid my sister's needless nagging.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Air rushes into the speeding car before I can roll up the window. My jacket is open in the front and the nippy air penetrates the fabric of the cocktail dress I'm wearing. I'm glad Owen picked me up in his car, though the cold is hardly a problem when the sight of him alone is enough to stir me until I'm warm. The sight of his profile, the jagged lines of his jaw, the smooth curves of his lips, all make me consider how silently he commands attention, how effortlessly he conveys the fact that he knows a thing or two about handling a woman.
 

He's sitting there, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gearshift, pretending he can't feel my eyes peeling away the layers of his clothes. Pretending he can't feel the way my imagination whirls to build an elaborate fantasy, one where we're both driving each other over the edge, no car in sight.

The drive is long but he won't tell me where we're going. I'm highly doubtful he would've been able to come up with anything surprising in such short notice. The day before yesterday he didn't think he'd be seeing me again.

We've been heading south on interstate five but it's not until he clears past the exits for La Jolla that I begin to suspect we are headed downtown. It's New Year's Eve and the only reasons I'd go downtown today would be to party in the Gaslamp Quarter or to watch the fireworks show by the bay. I assume Owen is planning for us to do the latter, probably at some restaurant with waterside views.
 

But we veer away from downtown, crossing over the Coronado Bridge. The dark waters of the San Diego Bay glisten in the subtle glow from the surrounding buildings and the moon. It's a clear night, mere wisps of clouds dissolving into nothing before my eyes.
 

I don't come to Coronado often, though it's a beautiful island. Houses are worth a pretty penny and the streets on the main part of the island have an almost dainty, historical feel to them.
 

As I suspected, Owen takes us to eat dinner at a nice restaurant overlooking the bay. Nighttime views of downtown span out before the wall-to-wall windows.
 

Along with a delicious dinner, we enjoy light and fun conversation, which flows with surprising ease. Even though we don't talk about anything important, we both lean into each other's words, not wanting to miss a syllable.We end up reminiscing about high school, as though those were days we shared and not a time when we lived in different worlds.
 

I usually have to watch my mouth on a first date, since I tend to say outrageous things when I get carried away. But I don't have to worry about that with Owen. He counters all my quick remarks without even batting an eye.
 

Afterward, we walk out of the restaurant and onto to the grassy area facing the bay. Out here, the view of downtown is even more stunning. Bright, multicolored lights glimmer like squared Christmas trees in the distance.

Wordlessly, but eyes shining, Owen takes my hand and leads me down the nearby boat access ramp, which yields to a public dock further down. I look for the white flash of a boat against the dark waters, but I don't see any. Then, as we reach closer to the end of the dock, a dark wood, banana-shaped rowing boat comes into view. Waiting for us, a man stands on one end, holding the long oar he will undoubtedly use to propel us into the bay.

"What in the—" I turn to Owen and laugh in surprise. "A gondola?"

Owen nods. "Thought maybe we'd get away from the crowds tonight."

A pure, inquisitive expression comes over his face in the form of small lines on his forehead. That, contrasting with the eagerness in his eyes, makes my knees go weak. This man has no idea how utterly irresistible he is to me.

The gondolier helps me onboard and the boat, though easily fifteen-feet long, sways a little too much for my liking, too small for this vast body of water that is the bay. I've only ever seen these things in the fake canals of The Venetian, a hotel in Vegas designed to be a miniature replica of Venice, Italy. Though, those gondolas were far smaller in scale than this one.

After quick safety brief, Owen and I are provided with a warm blanket to settle under in our padded leather seats. Owen sits behind me and I settle in between his legs. It all feels incredibly intimate. A little over six feet of dark wood separates us from where the gondolier stands, on the opposite end of the boat, paddling us onto the bay.

"This is nuts," I say, almost to myself. "I've lived here my whole life and never once heard of gondola rides."

"Glad I can be your first," Owen says. I can hear the smile in his tone. "They aren't usually on this side of the bay. The gondola company is down by the Coronado cays. But I called in a special favor to have the boat towed out here."

"Special favor, huh?" I ask, amused. Maybe he
is
in the mob, after all. I laugh inwardly and shake the thought away.

It's warm under the blanket, warm enough to shield us from the chilly air, colder here from the proximity to water. Owen's face is nestled in the crook of my neck from behind, and his hands are caressing small circles on my abdomen, over my dress.
 

"How'd you hear about this, anyway?" I ask.

"Google."

"What? Did you google 'panty dropping first date ideas in San Diego?'"

"Something like that. I was trying to impress you. Did it work?"

"Are you kidding? I'm not usually into sappy stuff, but I swear, if that dude wasn't standing over there paddling this boat, I'd be sucking your dick right now. This is the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for me."

 
He chuckles softly as our boat weaves through the water, parallel to the shore. The twinkling lights from the buildings beyond are as seductive as they are romantic.

"Am I monogamizing the hell out of you?" Owen asks.

"You are," I say, taking in the array of sensations around me. The salty smell of ocean. The warmth of Owen's arms wrapped around me, his hard chest pressed to my back. Soothing, rhythmic sounds of water lap against the sides of the gondola. All of it grounds me in the moment in a way I've never quite experienced before, until a strange feeling presses on the walls of my chest. A fullness that reminds me a lot of gratitude but leans more toward satisfaction. But, as I consider this, the feeling is eaten away by one I absolutely recognize.

 
Foreboding.
 

The dark, ominous twinge that things, especially good things, are never what they seem. The suspicion the universe balances happiness on the thin blade of chaos.
 

"God, you make it hard to think," he says into my ear. "Feeling you like this. So close."
 

Something about staring out into the water and the view before us makes it easier to say what's on my mind. "Tell me something, Owen. Do you have a crazy ex-girlfriend hell bent on branding your penis like cattle?"

"No…" He's audibly confused by my question. "What makes you ask me that?"

"My sister went through crazy drama and I'm not into that stuff."

"Good, because neither am I." One of his hands holds me steady against him, the other traces small circles over my belly button. All the warm air under the blanket pools between my thighs as I begin to throb with desire for him. And yet, as badly as I'd love to fuck him right now, him holding me feels good too, in a different way. In a brilliantly understated way.
 

"Tell me," Owen says by my ear. I shift a little where I sit, stirred by the way his breath sends a delicious flurry down my neck. "Was there someone waiting for you in San Francisco? Someone upset you didn't go back?"

"No," I say, hesitating as his hands move down to the sides of my thighs, slowly inching up my dress. I'm not sure how to react, it's not like we have a chance at sneaking in any real action with the gondolier around. But the man is facing away from us and the blanket shields the progress of Owen's hands as he pulls my thighs apart on a caress. Nothing can betray his indecent touch, except for the change in my breathing.

"Go on," he whispers, "tell me why not."

"Well," I begin, taking in a breath, slow and steady, trying to remain still as his fingers find my tender spot over my underwear. "I've had an issue with the men I've dated. The same problem every time. Men…they always want to…." I pause, trying to nail the word on the tip of my tongue. "Claim ownership over me. Like I need to be tamed or something." That word feels close to the mark, but not quite right. "Maybe I have daddy issues, but I've always had problems with authority." Owen laughs a little at this, though I'm not sure how it's funny. "A man telling me what to do suffocates me, it turns me off. I don't want to be controlled."

That's it. The word I'm looking for.

Owen brings his lips to my ear. "Except in bed."

"And how'd you guess that?" I ask with a grin.
 

"Because your body responds to my every command." Owen starts to rub me in slow circles. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip to keep from moaning aloud. Closing my eyes, I hone in on his touch, the ache it elicits, as he adds, "Yet you say you can't be tamed."

My lips turn up at his playful tone. "Unless I'm turned on and naked, I'm not looking to be handled—" I take in a sharp breath at the sudden, rough stroke of his finger. "So no, I don't want to be tamed. Why is that always a condition to being with a man?"

"What sorts of conditions would you be interested in, then?" His finger finds my entrance and traces the wet skin there.
 

I suppress a sigh of delight and ask, "Hypothetically speaking?"
 

"No, Emily—" He pushes his finger inside of me and begins to pulse in and out of me, slowly. "I think I've made it clear I'm not talking hypotheticals. Tell me what you want."